It’s always a summertime cruiseand we’re sweatin’ on the deck,leaning back on white chairsand telling tall tales.A hot river breeze is floating bywith a cool shade clingingloose to the banks.We’re drinking ice teas with lemonslike were Kings of that place.We’re high rollers and barkinglike we own the place.We sail by the entire worldrolling down that river,our big wheel turning up and upthe wake’s white froth.At twilight we‘re dancingand leaning over the edgesas the lights came up all along the boat.Isn’t it always this way:before the end someone takes a mind to duck out early,always the life of the party,always in a coattails and a big hat.They’ll tip their brims and give you a winkas they step off the south side ramp, twirling canes and umbrellas, depending upon the rain.The party crowd always tries to lure them backbut it’s never any use.And the last you see themthey’re sauntering up the hilland then they hit that crestwithout even so much as a waveor a shout of see you soon.The boat slows downto kind of a melancholy float,everyone looking backbut they’re already gone.

My Aunt Merle passed away last night. My biggest memory of her is a Mississippi day-cruise I took in the late-1970s with her and my Uncle George who were down visiting from Alaska.